The Core
by LuvRuePrim
Summary: What was the first rebellion in Panem like? Was it easier on the citizens of Panem, or tougher? This is the story of three young victims of the war, and their choices will shape Panem forever. The question is, are their choices the right ones?
1. Chapter 1: Background

**[Author's Note:] Hello everybody! I don't know if you're one of my lovely readers of my other story, Deep in the Meadow, who I've left this to to read while I'm overseas for two weeks, or if you're just a bored random person trolling fanfics, or if you're a Millicent Bystander who loves The Hunger Games as much as I do _(impossible_!). It doesn't really matter to me - what _does _matter is that THIS STORY IS CURRENTLY NAMELESS! What I mean is that I haven't decided a proper name. It's quite a rough draft, actually. It was never originally going to go on Fanfiction but I had it on my iPod and I've been working on it and when this issue that I won't be able to work on my main story for a while came up, I thought, eh, what the heck, I'll just put it up. So here we are. This isn't all of it, and it hasn't been edited by my oh-so-clever _beta_. (Sorry, Lizzy!) Anyway, please let me know what you think of it, and if you don't like it, hey, that's fine, I'll take it off Fanfiction, work on it, and put it back on for you guys to check out again. Or maybe I won't put it back on. Maybe this is a bludge.  
>Eh, sorry, I'm rambling. Oh, just to let you know: the language in this is semi-old-fashioned. Since it's set in the Dark Days yet in the future from today, I wasn't sure. So, here ya go.<strong>

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><p><span>The Introduction of the Story that Has No Name and is About the Dark Days<span>

It started out as just wishes, prayers; crumpled, half-formed hopes. It slowly, slowly grew to whispers among others, than others more, until the whispers grew to private chats and group talks. We had to keep it all under our hats, you see — couldn't have anyone find out or we'd all be killed. The talking grew into actual plans and schemes until somehow it became sweet reality. Well, not sweet. More like gruesome, bloodthirsty reality, but the idea was sweet nonetheless. At least that's what Mother and Father say. I think it's all a big mistake, a mess, a disaster. But all the adults say, "We're creating a better future for generations to come! It's a revolution!" I very strongly disagree. The day the Capitol elected its new president was the day of attack, while the government was on new, uneasy legs. At the start we were winning — the Capitol never saw it coming. But now it's a very different story.

I remember the day the war began. Mother was ushering us into the basement of the Yammas' house, along with the Yammases, the Dews, the Belladors and two other families I don't know. The fathers of the families were off fighting and so were Rustic Dew and another older boy from one of the other families. All together, there were 21 of us crammed into a tiny basement. My younger sister and brother were scared and confused and it was terribly noisy with all the people.

Nancy Bellador, a mother of four girls, stood up on a little stool and had to yell to get everyone's attention. She told us that the Rebellion had begun, and we were going to overthrow the Capitol so everyone could live peacefully with enough food to eat. That cheered us up and we listened for any noises of retaliation from the Capitol above. About half an hour passed in silence when there was an earsplitting bang and small pieces of the ceiling crumbled onto our heads. The younger kids screamed and began to cry and their mothers had to calm them down. "We're very safe down here," they said. "The bombs can't reach us."

There were volleys of bombs for days, shaking the ground we were in and sending shocks of fear through us. But we survived. For a week, by the end of which the bombings subsided. Moved onto another district, I suppose. There was barely any food, which was what we're used to, but there was very little water as well. We began to deteriorate inside our basement. We got sick of each other and fights broke out regularly. Mrs Dew, a much older woman with only two kids now that Rustic was gone, went insane from thirst and longing for her husband and eldest son. "They'll come back," she whimpered every few seconds. "I'll wait till they come. They have to."

Night and day blurred into endless time. The only toilet was a small bucket that was supposed to be empties regularly but everyone was too frightened to open the trap door so the room stank of our filth. It made us all sick. Someone opted for moving out, but the fear of Capitol soldiers above kept us down. When baby Corilda Yammas died, panic and grief set in. Mother decided to escape and so with Tommas and Delidah and me, she shoved open the trap door, and we snuck out. As soon as we got outside, she whispered to me, "Whatever you do, protect Tommas. He's the male and will carry our name as long as he sires sons, and his sons sire sons."

"Of course, Mother," I said. "Delidah and Tommas come first."

"Listen to me," Mother said urgently, taking my hand and clutching it between both of hers. "Listen to my words. Protect Tommas at all costs."

I was shocked as I came to grips with what she was saying. "Does Delidah's life not matter?" I hissed.

Mother said, "It's what your father wanted— wants." She took a deep breath in. "Wants. The last thing he said to me before he left was, 'Keep our family line alive.' That means protect the only one of us who can surely carry it for the rest of his life and pass it on to his children."

I didn't think this is entirely fair on Delidah, but I nodded tightly. "I promise, Mother."

It was on the wrong side of twilight, getting darker by the minute, which was good for cover. All around us was rubble and the stench of burning houses and bodies and the faint sound of distant gunfire and screaming and crying and the marching of Capitol soldiers and smoke creating a heavy fog that stung my eyes and hurt my throat. We stole into the night and the strangely subdued chaos.

Our legs were weak from being cramped in the basement, and we were ill and disorientated and weak from not seeing sunlight or breathing fresh air for the long week, which made our progress slow and perilous. An enemy soldier saw Tommas and turned to shoot, but Mother dove in front of him, shoved him down and took the fire. Before my eyes Mother was punched again and again with lead bullets, her body jerking and blood spitting out of the holes as the bullets went through her. She fell to the ash-covered ground, dead. I had to cover Deldiah's and Tommas' mouths to muffle their screams, and bite my tongue to stop my own. I couldn't stop staring at Mother's body, turning the white ash a dark crimson, black in the darkness. Her last instructions to me rang in my head like a siren, accompanied by a dull buzzing noise, growing louder in my ears. _Whatever you do, protect Tommas_. The soldier that murdered Mother had assumed that he had taken out the threat and moved on.

And the feeling of responsibility that had fallen upon Mother now came to rest on my shoulders. I knew I would be in charge from then on. I was thriteen and now caring for both of my younger siblings in a war-torn world. We ran through the night, escaping the cold glares of the soldier's guns.

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><p><strong>Yes, yes. Very short. This is only a mere sample of it. This is the only part that is in past tense; I just needed it to set up the background story. And <em>yes<em>, Delidah is _not _a real name, and yes I _do _know the correct way to spell Thomas, trolls. But I think Tommas is a _much _cooler way to spell it. So, yes, please R&R, and either give me a name suggestion or suggest I take this right off yo Fanfiction website or imma slap yo face, dawg. *cough cough* Sorry. Been watching too much YouTube. May the Force be with you, and may your world be free of bunny-hopping, tea-bagging, rage-quitting, trolling, douchy n00blet derps.**


	2. Chapter 2: New Life Or Not

**[A/N:] Part two of three, peeps. Enjoy. Read, review, do whatever you want. Negative reviews, while heartbreaking (*sob sob*...) are appreciated, but not requested. Language is occasionally a little old-fashioned _on purpose_ (not that old, just words and phrases I wouldn't use, like "I myself don't quite understand it" instead of "I don't get it either". That sort of thing.) **

**Enjoy, mah bruzzahs and sistahs! )**

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><p>Chapter Two<br>New Life... Or Not

That was only the beginning. Now, motherless and probably fatherless, we're hiding in different ruins of houses each night, eating whatever scrap of edible material we can find. The war has been going on for so long, around two years, and I have no idea who's winning. We haven't spoken to another human in over a year, and there hasn't been a minute where I've glanced over my shoulder at least twenty times. I haven't seen daylight in months, since we've become nocturnal for our own safety, and even so I've barely slept at all in the two years we've been in hiding. Water is so hard to find, but we make do with drinking from broken or burst pipes from destroyed homes. We're too scared to leave the comfort of District Thirteen, our home and only the place we know. But things are getting too extreme to stay.

"There's barely any water pipes left," Tommas whispers. He's eleven now, and Delidah is twelve. I'm fourteen. I can't remember the last time any of us spoke above a whisper. "And no food. We must've gone through every house in the district at least twice. I'm starving."

"I know, Tom, we all are," I say. "But we can't give up. There's still water, and maybe we can... eat bark or pine or something."

"There's no trees," Delidah says. "This place is barren!"

I sigh. "Maybe it's time we leave the district."

My siblings groan softly. We've had this discussion a million times over and all it's resulted in is conflict. "We can't go, we don't know how to survive out there," Delidah says.

"It's too scary," Tommas backs her up.

I wait until their rants are done before speaking. "We've talked about this. I'm serious. Out there is basically the same as in here, but more trees, which means more cover, which means more sleep and more freedom. And who knows? Maybe we'll come across another family of rebel survivors."

"You said that last time!" Tommas says.

"And I'll keep saying it until you two see my point of view. Being stubborn won't keep us alive—"

I become instantly silent as we hear the footsteps of soldiers. Our breaths are shallow and soundless as we wait for the danger to pass. A soldier carelessly sends a round of bullets through the streets, most likely out of boredom than for any other reason. After a minute or so they move on. We wait another minute before we continue talking. "We're infinitely lucky to have survived here this long. Our luck will run out eventually, probably soon," I hiss.

"Then let it run out," Delidah says challengingly. "We'll fight until we die. That's what this rebellion is all about. That's what Father is fighting for."

"Besides, it's That Day tomorrow," Tommas says. 'That Day' is our name for the anniversary of Mother's death. We visit the old basement near which she was killed if we're close enough.

I sigh again and study my siblings. We all look similar, with our sickly pale complexions that were rather pale in the first place, dark, dark bruises under our hollow-looking eyes, and bodies so thin we're skeletal, apart from our stomachs, which are bloated from lack of some protein or other. Delidah used to have lovely straight blonde hair that I used to brush for her every morning, and rosy pink cheeks, and her chocolate brown eyes were as deep as her soul; but over time her hair has turned a foul, filthy brownish-yellow color, the color has disappeared from her face and her eyes have paled with her personality, seeming more a hazel than chocolate color now.

Tommas used to be a loud, confident little boy, with eyes just like Delidah's and hair so dark brown it looked black unless he was standing in the sun. Now he's barely a ghost of his past. It's terrible.

"Fine," I say. "Fine. After That Day we'll leave, though. Agreed?"

Tommas and Delidah think this over. "Okay," Tommas agrees with a nod. Delidah hesitates before saying, "All right. But if anything goes wrong out there, I'll be the one to say, 'I told you so'."

"I believe that," I mutter to myself.

We creep, half crouched, through the district. Because of all the creeping, this half crouching, our legs are very strong and we could probably outrun any trained soldier who came at us. But no one can outrun a bullet.

We near the basement. The Yammas' house on top had been blown up with the first bombs, but the basement, while bare and a little holey, still stays strong.

For the first time in a long time, I crack open the trapdoor that leads in to our first hideout. A wave of nauseatingly foul smell hits me full in the face and I gag, lowering the lid as quickly and as quietly as I can. Tommas and Delidah peek over my shoulder. "Open it again," Tommas says. "I want to see if there's any food."

"We ran out of food in there ages ago," I say. Tommas still wants me to open it so I say, "All right, but hold your nose." They do and, sucking in a breath, I open the trapdoor. We peer into the darkness. There's someone in there! I jump down, landing ankle-deep in human waste, which would explain the smell, and squint at the person. "Mrs. Dew?"

I can see now that she's well and truly dead, her body half way between rotting and not because of being locked away underground, slumped against a wall with a blunt knife in her hand. There's no sign of her children. They must have gone. My eyes become more adjusted to the darkness and I can see carvings on the wall. Everywhere. They all say, 'They have to come back', over and over again in scratched, awful writing. Poor Mrs. Dew must have been so mad she trapped herself in here, waiting for her son and husband to return.

"What's down there?" Tommas asks.

"Nothing worth reporting," I say as cheerily as I can manage, climbing out and closing the trapdoor behind me. "Let's get some sleep, hm?"

There's no water nearby so we curl up under a piece of wall of the Dew's house that had fallen, creating a convenient slope to hide under. As usual, I lay my leg across both of my younger sibling's bodies — Tommas lying between Delidah and me — so that any movement they make will alert me.

I only sleep for a short time, the memories of Mrs. Dew haunting me, before Tommas wakes me up, gasping and jerking in shock. Another one of his nightmares. I rub his arm to calm him down. "You okay?" I breathe.

Tommas doesn't reply for a while, just getting his breath back. Then tears start running down his face. "I don't want to leave District Thirteen," he whispers in a ragged voice. I hug him and he sobs into my shirt. "Shh," I say. "Shh, shh. Settle down. We'll be all right, Tom. We'll be okay." But will we? my mind nags me.

He cries himself back to sleep and eventually I drift off as well.

I wake up before the others like I do every morning to scavenge for food or water. It's That Day (well, night) today.

I manage to find a crumpled can of corn kernels, probably a dropped can of a soldier. There's only a few kernels left in the can, but for me it's a treat. Corn? I haven't had corn since I was only a baby!

I scoop up the can and hurry back to my brother and sister, who are awake. We divide the kernels between us exactly evenly and eat them, then with heavy hearts we sneak to where Mother fell.

Her body is still there, decayed and rotted and now just a pile of bones in shreds of clothes.

Tommas and Delidah cry a bit but I force myself not to. I have to be the strong one for them to look to when there's trouble.

We sit in silent respect for about a minute, then decide to move out.

"Stay right near me," I tell Tommas and Delidah. "Don't ever lose sight of me."

They nod. We make our way through the ruins and soldiers until finally we make it to the woods. We hurry toward them and keep running for as long as we can.

When we can't run anymore we keep up a brisk walk, just keeping on moving to separate ourselves from our home. It's nearly dawn when we stop.

"I'm exhausted," Tommas says. "Can we sleep now?"

I think for a while. We're all about to drop dead with tiredness so I say, "Okay. In the morning we'll make a plan, all right? We're safe out here, guys." Well, safer than we were in Thirteen.

They agree with me and when we settle down, we fall asleep.

Night comes. I wake up what seems like a few hours later, on account of the dark, but the crick in my neck gives away that I've been asleep for longer. I see find Tommas and Delidah sitting around glowing hot coals, poking them with sticks. I slowly get up.

"Oh, she's awake," Delidah announces. "We thought you'd never wake up."

I stretch. "Oh, I haven't slept that much in years! How long?"

"About three days," Tommas says.

"You should have woken me up, I'm sorry," I say.

Delidah shakes her head dismissively. "You needed the sleep. Hey, Tommas found a dead rabbit that had been half-eaten or something, so he cooked it up and we ate some. Imagine! A rabbit! I haven't eaten so much before. Want it?" She holds out a charred piece of meat. "It's a bit burnt but it still tastes nice."

"Thanks." I take it and bite into it. The burnt skin crackles and the overcooked meat inside fills my mouth with flavor. It's so good. I eat it all in a manner of seconds.

"Is there any more?" I ask hungrily. Tommas and Delidah shake their heads. "We all got that amount."

I start sucking on the bones. "So what's the plan?" Tommas says.

"Well, I can't say I've been thinking about it," I say, "what with me being asleep and all, but we could move to another district. We should, I mean. It's the safest option."

"No!" Delidah cries. "What about Thirteen? It's a wasteland! How can the others be better?"

"They must be," I say firmly. "Besides, would you rather die out here? With no... no purpose? No goal to strive to?"

"We won't die," Tommas says. "I found food, right? There has to be lots more."

"No, there doesn't," I say. "I don't want to argue, you two. We have to go to District 12."

"I'm staying here," says Delidah childishly.

"Me too," Tommas adds.

"No you're not," I say through clenched teeth, beginning to lose my patience.

"Yes, we are."

I throw myself to my feet. "Listen," I say sharply. "Mother died so Tom could live. Father might be dead too, but it's so we can live. Do you want to throw that all away? Make their sacrifices worth nothing?"

My siblings don't reply, but look upset.

"We're moving to District 12. We'll fit in, make some friends, and when this war is over, we'll make new lives there, all right?"

Again no response. I sigh and run a hand through my filthy, knotted hair. "Great. Okay. Let's go, then. Come on."

They get to their feet and we set off.

We travel through the woods for weeks, drinking water from lakes and brooks we come across and nibbling on bark from different trees (with trial-and-error taste tests). We don't know anything about living in the woods, but we know how to survive the worst, harshest situation. I discover that in the mornings dew settles on leaves of trees, which gives us hydration until the sun grows too hot. We slowly adjust to traveling in daylight, trekking through the trees in the early morning and resting in the middle of the hot day. Life is harder. Our strength lost in the long years of hiding out in Thirteen returns — not completely, but a little. With our strong legs we can hike long and tirelessly. I'm actually starting to feel a bit better. Our bare feet are raw and tired and we're aching all over, but it's all right. We're surviving.

One problem: where is District Twelve?

All we can do is estimate where it is. We'll turn up somewhere eventually, right? Just have to keep going.

After about a month and a half we come across evidence of human contact. A collapsed shelter.

"We must be close," Delidah says hopefully.

"Yeah," I say half-heartedly. This isn't anywhere close to being firm proof that District Twelve is nearby, but I have to let them have hope. Without hope, we're nothing, really.

Tommas grins. "Come on, then!" he says excitedly, running ahead. "Let's hurry!"

Delidah follows him but I stay behind, staring at the old shelter. It's made of bark and sticks, just one of those flat board-like shelters that you prop up against a tree to hide you from the sky. I spy something out of place, and squint at it, kneeling down next to the tree that the shelter was leaned against. It's a splatter of something. Something dark and almost glossy. I touch it. Eugh, it's sticky. I wipe my finger on the tree, and notice that the leaves and twigs on the ground have been dug up in two shallow valleys of dirt. Tracks. Something was being dragged along here.

I screw up my nose at the sticky stuff and follow the tracks forward. "Agh!" I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands out of shock, and to hide my nose and mouth from the smell. Because at the end of the trail is a mangled, rotting body. It wears no clothes, and judging by the scorched hair and horrifyingly disgusting skin, covered in ugly black craters of charred skin that sometimes reveal the bone, it's a body that was burned. A body with holes riddled in its chest. I have to run away then, too scared to do anything else. As I catch up to the others and try to keep down my meal, I piece the puzzle together. The sticky stuff? Blood, obviously. Holes in the body? Shot. Someone must have shot the person and then tried to get rid of the evidence by burning the body, but it mustn't have worked.

I do my best to rid myself of that nightmarish image, but it's anything but easy.

We keep going, and District Twelve does not show. At nightfall, we decide to hit the sack.

The memory of the body haunts me and I can't sleep. Tommas conks out straight away. About half an hour passes and I feel Delidah stir under my foot. I sit up. "What's the matter?" I ask her.

"Nothing," she says. "I can't sleep."

"Neither."

She hesitates. "Um... I was thinking... If you had to choose between me and Tommas to save, who would you choose? Coz I don't think I could choose between you two."

I sit up. I hesitate before speaking. "Do you know what the last thing Mother said to me was? And the last thing Father said to her?"

Delidah shakes her head, still lying down.

"Protect Tommas," I say. "Mother said I must protect Tommas, whatever I do."

Delidah is quiet. "She didn't say to protect me?" she asks softly, hurt clear in her voice.

"I'm sorry, Delidah," I say gently. "I myself don't quite understand it. She said that Tommas is the only one who can pass on our family name, and it was Father's last wish."

"But we carry our name," Delidah says.

"But we can't pass it on to our children. Children get the father's name. Don't you see? Father believes that keeping the family name in existence is of utmost importance."

The words don't feel right coming out of my mouth so I say quickly, "But of course I will protect you too. To me, both of your lives are more valuable than my own. You two are top priority," I say firmly.

Delidah gives me a small smile. "Thank you."

"It's what big sisters do. Now, get some sleep. We have a mission to fulfil tomorrow."

She rolls over so I can't see her face. I lie down and close my eyes.

In the morning there is a strange smell wafting over me. I sit up bolt right. It's the smell of fire. Is something burning? No, there's no campfire near me. I stand up and turn in a circle, trying to find the source. I can't see anything strange. It must be coming from far away. But how far? I climb a tree, which is pretty hard considering I've never done it before, and scan the distance. I see smoke, billowing up from an unknown place. It must be— "District Twelve," I whisper.

I jump down carefully (the last thing I need is a broken ankle) and shake my siblings awake. They sit up, sniffing. "What's burning?" Tommas asks.

"District Twelve," I say, helping them to their feet. "You were right, Delidah, it's not far!"

"But smoke can carry miles," Delidah says.

"I climbed a tree and saw it," I say. "Come on!"

"Wait," Tommas says, stopping Delidah and me from going on ahead. "Why do we want to go to the district that's on fire?"

"We're not going in it while it's burning, obviously," I say. "But we know where it is now! Come on! Before the smoke trail vanishes."

Tommas gets up and we start running in the direction I saw Twelve. "You know," Delidah says as we run, "if an entire district was on fire, I highly doubt the smoke would disappear very quickly."

"Never mind!" I say. "Just run!"

We go as fast as we can. After about an hour of a steady pace Tommas puffs, "Can... we... rest?"

"We're nearly there, Tom," I urge him. "Just a bit longer." I take his hand and help him along.

In the end we do have to stop. I allow us five minutes before I get everyone to their feet and we're off again.

Finally I see signs of civilization: a small wooden hut. "Come on, guys," I say to my tired, stumbling brother and sister. "Come on. Home stretch. We'll rest when we're there."

It only takes a few minutes of staggering to reach the fence. Tommas and Delidah collapse, sucking in breath and clutching their sides. I lean against my knees and massage a stitch in my side. "We made it," I breathe. "We finally made it."

"And... it's... on... fire," Delidah gasps.

"Yay," Tommas says sarcastically.

"District Twelve; the district on fire," I say. "See? Sounds cool."

"Not... really," Delidah says.

We catch our breath. When my siblings can stand up again I creep forward to inspect our soon-to-be home. People are screaming and running away from burning buildings but they're also firing onto enemy soldiers, who are firing back. Flaming torches soaked in alcohol are being tossed at the soldiers. Chaos has ensued.

"THAT'S our new home?" Delidah says. "It's as bad as Thirteen."

"Well, there're people fighting, at least," I reason.

Tommas sighs. "Well, do we wait till it's over? Or go in and fight?"

"I vote wait," Delidah says.

"Me too," Tommas says.

"All right, we stay," I say. "Let's go in that hut we saw back there."

"All right, we stay. Let's go on that hut we saw back there," a voice says in a high, sing-song voice.

We gasp and turn around. "Who's there?" I demand.

"Who's there?" the voice repeats in an exact copy of my voice.

"What?" I breathe, looking around.

"I think it's that bird over there," Delidah whispers, pointing above us. It's black and white, and sure enough it opens its beak and Delidah's voice bursts from its throat. "I think it's that bird over there."

I look closely at the bird. I've never seen a thing like it. It's a peculiar mixture of different colours and tones almost like khaki but more detailed, ranging from dark green-grey and black to light grey and dirty golden. I can barely make it out, it's so perfectly camouflaged in the trees.

"What are you?" I mutter.

The bird repeats it.

"I'm going to call it Bob-Bob," Tommas says. "I was going to call it Bob but seeing as it repeats everything I thought Bob-Bob was more appropriate."

"Tom, you can't go around naming things," I scold him.

The bird, after a polite pause, repeats everything that was said.

"How much can it remember?" Delidah says. "An entire song?"

I'm about to say, "Well, don't bother trying, let's go," when Delidah begins to sing a song. She's not a terrific singer and I didn't know she knew any songs at all, but she sang.

"Mary had a little lamb; its fleece was white as snow.  
>And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.<br>It followed her to school one day, which was against the rules.  
>It made the children laugh and play to see a lamb at school... Um, I forgot the rest."<p>

The bird sings it back in an immaculate voice.

"That's a stupid song," I say. "Who taught you that?"

"We learned it at school one day, when we were learning history. Apparently that was a nursery rhyme in the old days," Delidah says.

I shake my head. "People were so dumb back then. Seriously? A lamb, at school? Why isn't it on the dinner table?"

"Well, you know, the teacher told us people kept sheep as pets back then, but they ate them too sometimes."

"Were they called 'farmers', per chance?" I say sarcastically.

"Well, yes, but they were different from today. And you know that—"

"What's that on Bob-Bob's ankle?" Tommas interrupts her. I squint at the bird's feet. There's a tiny little tag wrapped around its leg. I can't read what's on it, but I have a feeling that, as strange as this bird is, that that tag didn't grow naturally on its leg.

"Shh," I hush my siblings. "Don't say anything more."

"Why?" Tommas whispers.

"I have a bad feeling about that bird."

Suddenly, it flies off.

"Aw," Tommas sulks. "Come back, Bob-Bob."

"No, don't come back, Bob-Bob," I mutter. "Come on guys, let's go. And try not to speak, in case there are more of those birds."

We hide in the hut.

The burst of rebellion from the headstrong District Twelve citizens lasts a few more hours. When it's over, I check the electric fence (it's not live), and pull back a part of a fence that has a tear in it. "Come on," I whisper. I gesture for my siblings to go. They lie flat on their stomachs and wriggle under the gap, then me.

We hurry over to a house and crouch behind it to assess the District. People are crying over the dead and carrying the wounded to a number of carts, some of which are already heading off to who knows where. The cemetery, maybe. Or a hospital of sorts, hopefully.

"Let's talk to someone," I suggest.

I creep out and cautiously approach a young woman who's tending to a cut on her arm. "Excuse me," I say shyly. She narrows her eyes at me. "Who are you?"

"I'm, uh," I stammer. "Well, I'm—"

"Whoever you are, darl, you're not from around here, which means you shouldn't be here."

"Please. I'm only fifteen, ma'am, and I've been taking care of my younger siblings for two years with no help," I beg.

"War's tough, darl. There're kids who've been through twice as much as you have. Besides, you look pretty well-fed, darl. If you're from the Capitol I'm gonna get my brother over there with the rifle to take you out."

"No!" I gasp. "We've been eating stuff from the woods for weeks. We're from District Thirteen."

"Then you should have stayed in Thirteen, darl. No one's in any mind to help strangers these days. Go home."

"We have no home!" I cry, but the woman has gotten up and walked away. "Please!"

I try another person. And another. And another. No one wants to help. A couple of times I say I'm from around the area, but they can all tell I'm not. I look around and see that all the people have grey eyes, dark, straight hair, olive skin. My black hair and blue eyes must stand out.

Sadly, I return to my siblings. I shake my head forlornly. "No one will help us."

They sigh. "Then what do we do?" Delidah asks. I shrug hopelessly. "I don't know, Delidah. What can we do?"

"We can't just give up," Tommas says.

"I don't know, Tom!" I yell. "I'm tired of this war! When will it be over?"

Tommas flinches.

"I'm sorry, Tom," I say. "It's just, this is all so idiotic and proud. I'm sick of it all."

"Wait here," he says, getting up and walking away. A few minutes later he returns accompanied by a middle-aged man on crutches carved out of wood and a little girl with flaming red hair.

"I told them we can gather food if they let us stay with them," Tommas says. The man introduces himself and the girl. His name is Stave, and he was a soldier fighting until he broke his leg. The girl is Arabel and she is the daughter of a close friend of his. She's only six.

Stave takes us to his house. One of the walls has collapsed. There is barely any furniture in the house; only a bed and a mattress with a blanket. It's the most luxurious place we've set foot in in years.

"Wow," Delidah sighs. "It's so _big_!"

"It's not much," Stave admits, "but it's home."

As Tommas and Delidah gaze around the room, I ask Stave, "How many people left in Twelve?"

He shrugs. "Couldn't say, but I'm taking a very rough guess when I say around 3% of the original population."

I raise my eyebrows. "Where has everyone gone?"

"Dead, mostly. The rest ran away."

"Better than District Thirteen, I suppose."

"Why? How many people left?" Stave asks.

I shake my head. "I haven't seen another District Thirteen citizen since the war started. Only Capitol soldiers. There aren't any homes still standing."

Stave sighs. "We've only survived this long because we do what we're told. Mostly. Occasionally we have a desperate retaliation but it always results in more people dead. I don't think I've eaten in a month or so. I give all my food to Arabel."

"Well, that won't be a problem any longer," I promise him.

He raises an eyebrow and sucks in a breath. "If the soldiers find out where you've been, you'll be executed. That's how my wife died. Public execution. They cut her head off." His voice is full of pain and loss.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly.

"It's all right. Poor kids, you must've been through much more than I have."

I don't reply. "How far along do you think this war is? When will it end?" I ask quietly.

Stave sighs. "I couldn't say. We are too unpredictable. It could end in a week or last for another year, I don't know."

I watch my younger siblings introduce themselves to Arabel. Even though they've been through so much, they still know how to smile.

"I never knew what happened to my father," I murmur. "He went off the fight in the war and I never heard of him again."

"I'm sorry," Stave says.

"Don't be," I say. "We were never really close to him anyway. He was incredibly focused on his work. We were more like his servants whenever he was home."

"And your mother? Did she fight too?"

I shuffle my feet, staring at the floor. "It was the beginning of the war when she died. We were trying to escape this basement we'd been locked in and she was shot." My voice catches on the last word. I struggle to keep back tears that threaten to overflow. It's the first time I've ever felt emotional about this. I've just kept moving, kept moving, focusing on the future, never in the present.

Stave reaches a hand out to comfort me but he takes me by surprise and on reflex I dart away.

"I'm sorry," Stave says. I think he's meaning he's sorry for two things.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm not used to... people comforting me, besides my brother and sister," I say.

"I understand," says Stave. "Well, anyway, I don't recommend going out tonight — the soldiers will be on high alert. So when you want, just drop to the floor and sleep, I suppose."

Life is easier then. The retaliations become more frequent. I manage to find a meter-long gap in the fence that I can wriggle through on my belly to get out into the forest and search for food. Meat is impossible, though. Until I find the bow. I'm trekking through the woods one day, searching for a lake I found yesterday to gather these roots that taste like they hold lots of nutrition and are easy to find if you can just get to the lake, when I spy the bow sitting in the grass in front of me. I pick it up and study it closely. I've never seen one before, but I know what it is. I glance around for any arrows, but there are none. I gather what food I need and hurry home.

"Look what I found!" I announce to my household, holding up the bow.

"What is it?" Tommas asks.

"It's a bow," I say.

"Well, what does it do?" Delidah asks.

"It... kills things."

"Kills things?" she repeats.

I frown in thought. "Uh, I think if you get arrows, then put them on the bow, you can pull back the string and fire the arrow to shoot something. As in deer. For meat."

Stave nods. "Yes, she's right. Bows and arrows are hunting tools. Were there any arrows too?"

I shake my head.

"Where did you get it?" Tommas asks me.

"I found it in the woods just now. It was lying on the ground, is all."

"How about tomorrow you gather some sticks and we can have a shot at carving arrows?" Stave suggests.

I nod. "Good idea. In the mean time..." I hold up my bag of goodies, which is actually someone's shirt filled with my gatherings, and put it gently on the ground, along with my new bow.

"Did you get any Katniss roots?" Tommas asks.

It's like a punch in the gut. I stagger. "WHAT roots?"

"Katniss roots," Delidah says. Bam, again, right in the stomach. "The roots that you said you found in a lake. Stave said they taste like potato, whatever that is. Remember?"

I'm struggling to breathe, but I manage a nod. "Why..." I whisper. "Why did you call them that?" I hate that name. I don't know why it was ever thought up. It can't be used for a plant.

Because Katniss was our mother's name.

"We thought that it suited the plant," Delidah explains. "It's comforting, and it helps you along through the day."

"And you eat it," I say scathingly, my voice not above a whisper. Suddenly, anger wells up inside me. "You named a _plant_ after our mother?" I yell. "Of all the things, a _root_?"

Delidah and Tommas cower under my furious glare.

Stave holds his hand out. "Now now, no need to get too worked up about it..."

I ignore him. "How could you?" I shout in my siblings' faces. Arabel begins to cry. "It's evil and to simply bring her up in casual conversation! She died for us, and you honor her death by tossing it aside and acting like it's a big joke!"

"No, we didn't—" Delidah stammers quietly.

"Don't you EVER call that stupid root Mother's name ever again, do you hear me?" I demand.

"Calm down," Stave says firmly, hugging Arabel and rubbing her back soothingly. "You need to calm the hell down, all right? They can call it what they want."

"Imagine if Arabel died today," I say, "and we named... a bush after her. The Arabel bush. Would you like that? Think it's such a great name?"

"I would be honored that you thought of naming something after Arabel at all," he says in a level tone, staring me in the eye.

I can't even form a reply. I just storm out of the house, slamming the door behind me, planning on taking a long walk around the area, but I collapse into tears as soon as I get out the door.

The next day I do as Stave suggested, and collect some sticks. I take them home and with our only knife, try to whittle out a straight line with a pointed head at one end and a split in the other so I can 'nock' the arrow, as Stave calls it. I do my best to fire them at the front door, but mostly they just fall to the floor. Finally, just when we're running out of sticks, Delidah manages to carve one that fires properly. It thunks into the door, near the handle, and we cheer. "Just one thing," I say. "I was aiming for the centre of the door."

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><p><strong>[AN:] Love it? Like it? Hate it with a passion? Let me know! I WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING! *Ahem...* **

**~LuvRuePrim over and out! :P**


	3. Chapter 3: Self Destruct

**[A/N:] Here we are, my friends and minions: the end of this tale. You know the drill - R&R, all that. Hope you like it!**

* * *

><p>Chapter Three<br>Self-Destruct

The war goes on for another year, I think. Since we don't know the days, we name a new day That Day and have a short funeral-like memorial ceremony for Mother, Stave's wife and Arabel's parents. I learn how to use the bow and how to carve arrows and I become quite adept with it. I make sure Tommas and Delidah know too, lest be killed one day.

I have a feeling we're winning. The Capitol is running out of soldiers, and District Twelve fights back whenever new ones are brought in. Everyone has their own personal reasons for battling: avenging a loved one, hatred towards to Capitol, simple bloodthirstiness.

I don't know how the other districts are going, or our own soldiers in the Capitol, but I hope they're doing as well as we are.

Then the war finally ends.

It's during another retaliation. I forbid my siblings to join me in fighting back, but this day they put their feet down and come out with me. I hate it, I hate it how they're growing up and getting their own ideas. It's dangerous, and I can't bear the thought of losing one of them. Especially when Mother's past request still floats around my mind: 'Protect Tommas.'

We're well into the retaliation when something goes horribly wrong. Massive planes approach us, roaring, stop above us. Everyone freezes and stares as more and more Capitol soldiers drop down. Hundreds and hundreds, three soldiers for every District citizen. And they open fire on us like we're wild birds trying to escape but we have no wings, instead we're just running about as if we're headless. There's screaming, and death from all sides. The piercing, distinct rattling of bullet fire is drumming against my head.

"GET TO THE HOUSE!" I holler at my siblings, ducking low and covering my head instinctively. They follow my lead and we charge towards the house, weaving between panicking people and cruel soldiers and the dead and the dying. Suddenly something — a rock, I think — hits Tommas in the head. He staggers and drops unconscious. Delidah screams, thinking he's been shot. I scoop him up in my arms. "He's not dead! GO!" I yell at Delidah. We carry on but I can't do it, Tommas is too heavy and it's too difficult. Change of plan. "Delidah, the woods! Wait in the woods!" I say to my sister. I pour Tommas into her arms. "It's not far! Head to the woods, I'll be with you soon! I'm going to find Stave and Arabel!"

"No!" she says. "I'm not leaving you!"

"_NOW_!"

She turns around and runs away as fast as she can. I go to dive into the mess. But I glance over my shoulder, just one more time, to make sure they're OK.

**DELIDAH**

I spare one last glance over my shoulder. Raven does, too, and she catches my eye. There's a small, sad smile on her face and I think she nods. I know what she's saying. "Protect Tommas." Then blood explodes on her face and she drops to the ground. Shot. Dead. Gone.

There's no time for regrets. I whirl around and charge away.

Tom is so heavy. But I can see the gap in the fence, just up ahead. Get to the fence, get to the fence...

What happened? Why are there so many enemy soldiers? Where have they come from? My brain is a muddle. A bullet skims past me, nicking my shoulder. I cry out and stumble, but the adrenaline keeps me going. Then we're at the fence. I roll my brother through the gap and wriggle under after him. I pick him up again, almost tripping over another person who tried to escape but was killed, and hurry into the woods, to the lake that Raven showed me, with the Katniss roots.

I hide in a bush, with Tom in my lap. I can hear the pandemonium, the fire raging and the people screaming like lost souls in Hell.

I can't believe it. Raven is dead. After everything we've been through, she's gone just like that. She spent three years protecting us and bringing us up all on her own. Making decisions for us when we couldn't. Hiding us from the enemy. Staying awake all night if need be. Finding us food. And she's gone.

Tears begin to flow down my cheeks and I'm overwhelmed by sadness. I double over, resting my head on Tom's chest, sobbing. Father is dead. Mother is dead. Raven is dead. Tom could be dead. Life isn't fair. What did anyone do to deserve this?

My shoulder is leaking blood. I rip off a strip of material from my shirt and use it as a bandage. It's throbbing and it feels like it's burning a little, but the damage could have been a lot worse. Damage… I have a sinking feeling around the country it's a _lot _worse than this bullet brushing my shoulder.

The chaos quickly ends. We've lost. The soldiers have won. Please, I think. Please, don't have let us lose this whole war...

I crawl over to the lake and cup some water in my hand, which I splash over Tom's face. He awakes with a start, spluttering and coughing. "Raven!" he cries. Then he sees me alone. "Wh-where's Raven?" he asks.

I shake my head.

His face screws up and he begins to cry, shaking his head in denial. "I don't understand," he says. "I don't understand!"

"She's... She's dead, Tom," I say, my voice catching.

"No!" he cries. "No, she can't be! She's not dead."

I take him in my arms and he sobs into my shirt. I choke back more of my own tears. I have to be the strong one now.

"No," Tom mumbles through his tears. "No."

A loud voice surprises us. "Citizens of Panem, gather round and heed my words well," it says.

Tom and I freeze. I realize the voice came from District 12. "Come on, Tom," I say gently, standing up and taking his hand, tugging him. He stumbles along behind me as I break into a run to get there in time to hear whatever this loud man has to say. We crouch out of sight near the fence, and see a giant screen projected in the sky with the distraught face of a young man of maybe twenty. And when he speaks, it's like the entire world comes toppling down onto me.

"People of Panem — I am your new president, President Snow. I was going to make Panem a place of equality and peace. Each district would be as rich as the Capitol. No one would die of untreated sickness or injuries, or of starvation, or of dehydration. Everything would be better. But then you, the people of my country, rebelled against me when I had done nothing. And in your stupidity and blindness and ignorance, you _murdered_ my _daughter_. She was all I had left. Your actions were a big mistake. This is something that _cannot_, and _shall _not go unpunished.

"As a reminder to you all of your unforgivable crime, you will all see what it feels like to lose a child, how it feels to see someone you love be murdered at merciless hands. You will _all feel the pain_! I have created a tournament I shall name the Hunger Games. One boy and one girl from each district will be sent into an arena, where they will have to fight to the death, and you will celebrate it. The Hunger Games will take place every year, I swear on my life, until I the day I die. And I will make sure I live the longest any man has ever lived. Every year you will see your own be killed by each other. And you will suffer, as I suffer.

"The first annual Hunger Games shall go forth in the first month of next year. If you try to run, you will die. If you try to fight back, you will die. You will be destroyed, just as District Thirteen was." The screen cuts to a shot of my home, flaming and virtually non-existent. All that stands is the Justice Building.

"No," I choke out.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor," President Snow adds cruelly with a small smile. His face is blotchy and his eyes are bloodshot from crying, and those parting words, with that little smile of his, make him seem insane and broken. Maybe he is, now.

The screen vanishes. There's a beat of confused silence throughout the district, then the screaming starts again. More people are shot dead, and thrown into whatever houses are left standing.

"Come on," I say to Tom in a ragged voice, my entire body quivering. We slide under the fence and sneak to our house. Mostly it's still standing, just one wall smashed down. We go inside and find Raven's bow and arrows sitting on the ground. Sadness sweeps over me and I can't breathe. Tom and I both fall to the floor. Stave is nowhere to be seen. Then we hear a small voice. "Delly? Tom?"

We see a small fire of hair poke out of the pantry. "Arabel," I rasp. I clear my throat. "Bel, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me." Arabel folds herself out of the pantry, walking over to us but stopping a few feet away from us. "Where's Stave?" she asks.

I shake my head. "I don't know."

"Is he dead?"

"I... think so."

Arabel's face is so serious for a seven-year-old. She takes this in a calm silence. "Where's Raven?" she asks softly.

"She's..." I suck in a shaky breath, my chest tightening. "She's…" I manage to spit out some word which resembles "dead".

"Is it just us now?"

I nod. Arabel stands in the same spot for a moment before walking away. I don't blame her. I wouldn't want to be around a broken mess of people if I were her, either. But she comes back with a hairbrush in her hand. She has a comb, one made of wood that I carved for her a while ago, and she used to take great joy in yanking all the knots out of my hair so it was all smooth, but I have never seen this brush before. She puts it on the ground and walks away again.

She fetches a bowl of water from our stash of lake water in a few buckets, and a piece of rag. She crouches in front of Tom and dips the rag in the water, then scrubs the dirt and grime and blood and sweat and tears from Tom's face until he's clean and pink from being rubbed at. He doesn't respond at all to this treatment. When she's done, she says, "Clean with a kiss," and pecks Tom on the cheek.

Then Arabel picks up the brush and sits behind me, and proceeds to brush my hair. It isn't like the comb. This is smooth and bristly and calming. Arabel brushes my hair until it's completely knot-free, then runs her fingers through it once just to check. She crawls in front of us and sits down. I look at her, asking her why, with no words.

"I don't remember my mommy very well," she says. "But I remember that whenever I cried or was sad, she washed my face and brushed my hair. This was her brush." She held up the hairbrush. "Stave said to keep it safe and private. But I thought, since you were sad, and Stave is maybe dead and so is your sister but definitely, I thought Stave would say, 'OK. You can show them your mommy's brush.'"

"Aren't you sad?" I whisper.

Arabel nodded. "I will miss Stave a lot. But Daddy always said that when your friend is sad you have to be strong for them. If you cry, then they have to be strong for you. Even if you are both sad, the person not crying has to be strong for the crying person. I didn't really know what he meant until he and Mommy died and Stave was strong for me. Then his wife died and I was strong for him."

I realize how incredibly intelligent this girl is.

"Can I ask you a question?" she says.

I swallow and nod, hoping it's not going to be a hard one to answer.

"Who was that man outside? The one with the loud voice?" she asks. I sigh with relief.

"That was our new president," I say.

She nods. "He sounded very upset."

"He was. He is."

"Why?"

I take a shaky breath. "The people fighting on our side made a big mistake. They killed his daughter."

Arabel frowns. "Why did they do that? That's bad."

I shake my head. "I don't know, Bel. People do stupid things sometimes."

Arabel thinks this over. "What did he say?"

My heart skips a beat in fear. "Well... He said that he was very upset, and that he is going to punish us."

"What's he going to do?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," I say with a forced smile. Arabel studies my face intently.

"But you're worrying about it, Delly," she says. "Are we going to be OK?"

"You're going to be fine," I say.

"Are _we_, though?" she insists impatiently. "Are you and Tom?"

She's got me. "For a while, yes."

"How long is a while?" Arabel prompts, getting hurt by the secrecy.

I can't lie to her any longer. I just don't have the strength. "Till the first month of next year."

"What's going to happen?"

These questions are tiring me out. "I don't know exactly, Bel, I'm too tired."

"OK, sleep then. But you will tell me, won't you? Pinky promise?" She sticks out her little finger.

I stare at her. "What?"

"Pinky promise," she says. "You get your pinky and we wrap them together and shake. You can't break a pinky promise."

"All right," I sigh. Arabel curls her finger around mine and shakes. I drag myself over to the bed, brush the rocks from it, and collapse onto it.

Arabel turns to Tom. "Tom," she says gently. "Bed time now."

He doesn't move. She takes his hand, stands up, and pulls her towards the bed. He walks over willingly as if in a trance. He curls up on the bed next to me. I try to go to sleep, but I'm used to having R— her leg resting over mine, and her fingers on my arm. Tom stares straight ahead, unblinking and unmoving and awake. I wriggle over to him and wrap my arm around him. Lying that way, we manage to drift off to sleep.

Next year...

Tomorrow is the day that these Hunger Games begin. We're to gather in the centre of the district and the name of one girl and one boy between the ages of twelve and eighteen will be drawn and they have to go on stage. Besides that, no one knows what else is going to happen before the killing starts.

I've taken a new name — Gerzy. It's a boy's name, yes, because I've been pretending to be a boy ever since a week after the war ended. I cut my hair short and wore male clothing — baggy shirts, to disguise my hips — and tied a piece of cloth tightly around my chest. People honestly believe I am a boy. There was a massive plummet in population numbers, and men were raping women and girls as young as ten, just to get them pregnant and repopulate the country. I'm not the only one to dress up as a boy, but most women and girls hide in their homes, wasting away.

People having started working again, and school has opened, and we all have to go. Arabel enjoys it well enough, but Tom and I think it's a bore. I earn some money by selling my illegally-hunted game to a few people who are willing to buy it. We meet in a warehouse that until recently was used to store exports.

We rebuilt the crumbled wall of our house. People have just got their lives somewhat back on track. Now it's all going down the drain again.

There have been a lot of suicides lately. Teenagers killing themselves to avoid these dreaded Hunger Games.

School has been closed for the week. The streets are near bare. People are just staying at home, spending as much time with their children as possible. I know I'm with Arabel and Tom all the time. It took weeks, but we finally dared to go out in the woods and use R— the bow and arrows again.

"What if your name is drawn? Or mine?" Tom asks me when we're alone in one of the two rooms of the house.

"Then, I suppose, we'll have to go, and we'll have to try to win," I say. "And if we don't, well, the other will still have Bel."

"But there are hundreds of kids, right?" Tom says.

"Don't say that, Tom," I say. "If you say that, you'll get picked for sure."

He sighs. "I miss Raven."

I can't even bare to speak or think her name anymore. I look at my hands. "I know. I do too."

"I think... I think I miss her more than I miss Mother and Father," he says guiltily.

"I do too." There's a pause between us.

"What do you think she'd say, about the Hunger Games?" Tom asks.

"I think," I say, "she'd that we have to win. Because that's what we've tried to do since the war first started. I mean, haven't we?" I look up at Tom, realizing the truth in my words. "Haven't we tried to win? We've fought for our lives. We've made it against all odds. So really, Tom, though it may not seem like it, so far, we're winning already."

Tom flinches. "Don't hex yourself, Delidah. Talking like that is going to make things worse."

I stare at him, trying to get him to understand. "If we don't hope, then we're going to lose."

"We already have!" Tom yells. Arabel comes in from another room, disturbed by the noise.

"Are you two fighting?" she asks.

Tom sighs. "No, Bel, it's all right. We're just discussing things."

Arabel frowns but doesn't reply; she just disappears back into the room.

I sigh. "I'm not going to waste what may be my last day with you arguing. Just remember what I said."

Tom nods.

The next day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, we are called to the centre square. Everyone has to come, even if you are so sick you can't stand up. Only if you're on death's doorstep can you stay home, apparently. The Capitol soldiers who now live here to keep order — called 'Peacekeepers' — are checking every single house in the district, and killing anyone who's at home and not at what the Capitol has called the 'reaping'.

There are cameramen everywhere, like ants feasting on a picnic — or, rather, wild dogs eyeing lost children, considering eating them for lunch.

There's a platform, and two chairs sitting on it, behind a tall wooden rectangular thing with a microphone at the top.

When I arrive, holding tightly onto Arabel's and Tom's hands, I'm pushed away from them and ushered into a group of teenagers my age. "Tom! Bel!" I call, trying to push my way through. I can see them. Tom is separated from Bel, and although he and Bel fight back it's no use. He's thrown into a group of people his age and Bel is tossed to the side to join the children too young and the adults too old to enter. Then I can't see her, or Tom.

Two people take their places on the stage. A man I know to be the mayor of District Twelve, and a woman so bright it hurts my eyes to look at her. She's obviously from the Capitol. She has elbow-length hair, all in ringlets of a different color, and a suit with a skirt instead of trousers that's covered in gold, glittering sequins. Her face is covered in tattoos of various things, like birds, smiling girls, flowers, suns with grinning faces on them, all sorts of happy things. It's disgusting. Only her lips are untouched, instead painted with a bright red, sparkly lipstick. Her teeth are blindingly white. She totters up to the microphone and taps it experimentally. "Uh, excuse me," she says in a voice so strange it takes me a while to decipher what she's saying. Her voice is high-pitched like Arabel's, but that's not the problem. It's her accent. I never knew the Capitol to have an accent, but I guess it does. She sounds like a snake — a dizzy snake. Her S's are long, and her vowels go up and down in strange places. Yet besides keeping her toothy smile in place, her lips barely move.

"Excuse me," she repeats. "All right, yes, I know it's exciting, but can everyone settle down so we can crack on with the show."

A Peacekeeper fires his gun into the air. Everyone is immediately silent.

The disgusting Capitol woman introduces herself, and her name is so strange it just goes way over my head. She says she's our 'district escort', which means every year she will draw the names of our district 'tributes' and take them to the Capitol. She explains the entire process of the Hunger Games.

It sends the district into uproar. Televised? Dressed up and presented to everyone, like cattle being put into costumes before they're slaughtered? What is this, a game? An innocent children's television program? A festivity?

Yes. That's what President Snow wants us to treat it as. All of those things.

More warning shots are fired into the air by Peacekeepers. Everyone settles down, but I can feel the outrage sizzling just under the surface, like a bomb waiting to explode.

Thwnxssssssssskrbd Kfdbwnc, or whatever the Capitol woman said her name is, trots up to a large, round bowl, with a sickeningly cheery, "Ladies first!" and plunges her hand in. I hold my breath, feeling lightheaded with fear, until I realize that I'm counted as a boy. The district escort pulls out a small piece of paper with a name written on it. "Faye Sanderglove," she reads. There are a few screams and cries of disbelief and distraught from loved ones and the crowd murmurs sympathetically. The girl, Faye, walks through the crowd, which parts for her, and onto the platform. She's crying, her entire body visibly shaking. She looks about seventeen. So close to getting out of it, yet so far.

"Anyone want to volunteer in Faye's place?" the escort pipes. There's a loud sobbing coming from somewhere, but no one speaks up. Loyalty can only go so far. Faye is a mess. Her face is as pale as a sheet. Her violently shaking legs look fit to collapse from under her. The mayor, a kind man I suppose, stands up and takes his chair over to her, offering it to her with, "I'm sorry." She nods her thanks, swooning, and falls into it. The mayor returns to his spot, only this time standing.

"Well, next up, the boys!" the district escort says as if this is a good thing. She hops over to another bowl identical to the other, and fishes around inside it. Please don't be me, I think. If there's any god up there, please, don't let it be me.

Too late I realize I should be praying for—

Oh, no. No. It's him. It's Tom. His name has been called. How? His name was one tiny little slip. I hear Arabel's little voice cry out, "Tom!" Black spots swim before my eyes. I almost faint as Tom walks up onto the platform, looking just as bad as Faye.

Protect Tommas. That's what Father, and Mother, and most importantly R— she had said. Protect Tommas. And I can't.

Then I look down at myself. I'm a boy. Yes, I can protect him. The district escort asks for volunteers and my hand shoots up. I make sure to keep my voice a slightly deeper teenage boy's voice, one whose voice hasn't broken yet but is going to soon, when I call, "Yes! I volunteer!"

Tom freezes on the platform.

The escort scans the crowd for me. I push my way through until people get the idea and move for me. "I volunteer in place of Tom," I say breathlessly when I reach the bottom of the platform. I feel so elated I'm not failing R— her last request that I'm not even scared.

"No, you can't," Tom whispers to me, fear and pain clear in his eyes. "I won't let you."

"Do you know what Father's, Mother's, and R— Raven's," I force out, "last request was?"

"No."

"Protect Tommas."

"What? Why?" he cries, but I turn around and at the escort's request to state my name.

"Your brother, is it?" the escort says, gesturing to Tom. I nod. The escort winks knowingly. "I understand sibling rivalry. I have a brother myself. Hate it when he takes all the fame, too." She laughs lightly.

Tom yanks me back by my arm. "Don't make me tell them!" he hisses in my ear. "I'll tell them you're a girl!"

"Listen, Tom," I say seriously. "Father, Mother and Raven all died to save you. Would you have them all die in vain? Do you want their last wishes to not be fulfilled?"

Tom's grip slackens on my arm, remembering as I am of the time that Raven used the same argument on us when discussing moving to District 12, and his face morphs into an expression of betrayal. I take my arm back and stride to the centre of the stage.

"All right, then!" the escort trills excitedly. "Let's give them a hand, everyone!"

No one claps. I can feel Tom's gaze on the back of my head. He hasn't moved from the platform.

"Well, anyway, Gerzy, Faye, shake hands," the escort directs us. We do. Faye's hand is cold and sweaty and shivering. She can't look me in the eye. It's hard facing someone who will be trying to kill you in a few days.

The escort smiles widely and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, your first District Twelve Hunger Games tributes!"

I face the crowd, my hands clenched into fists. I am the first male tribute for District Twleve in the first annual Hunger Games. Tommas is the only one left of my family, my blood family. Arabel has taken our name, but she wasn't born with it. Only Tom can pass on our family name. I hope my descendents will fight as hard as I will, as Tom will, as Raven always had. People may find out that my name is Delidah, not Gerzy; that I am female, not male. It doesn't matter.

But I hope, in future generations, people will remember me, remember the family name three people died for.

Remember me, Delidah Everdeen.

* * *

><p><strong>[AN:] Cue collective gasp of realisation from audience...  
>By the way, Tommas doesn't die. Just to let you know. In case you haven't pieced the puzzle together. Yeah.<br>Olive-wah, peepsicles!**

**~Yours truly, LuvRuePrim XD**


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